


Number Thirty-Seven

by Hyperion327



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hockey, Canon-Typical Violence, College Student Stiles Stilinski, Derek Hale Commits Hockey Crimes, Hockey Player Derek Hale, M/M, Politics, Porn With Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-05
Updated: 2020-02-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:27:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22578550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hyperion327/pseuds/Hyperion327
Summary: Derek Hale is a legendary rookie on the Washington Capitals with a secret, Stiles Stilinski is a Georgetown University political science major with a nasty habit for running into trouble, and Lydia Martin is thoroughly amused by all of this. Add a fair bit of political turmoil and one night under martial law, then wait.Or, the author has taken his various hyperfoci of late and combined them into a single monstrous entitity.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 14
Kudos: 203





	Number Thirty-Seven

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so, the obvious question. What the fuck is this? Well, I recently bought NHL 20, and let's just say Be A Pro Mode is my latest way to kill five hours at a time. Also, impeachment (and a bullshit acquittal) happened, and that pissed me off. What better way to combine the two of these things than a smut story that also lets me preach and get some rage about the nonsense coming out of Washington off my chest? Enjoy!

“Hale, you were fuckin’ _filthy_ out there today, kid!” 

“Dude, did you catch the look on that sieve’s face when after Ovi _and_ Hale took that shit to the top shelf for hatties? I thought he was gonna cry!” 

“Motherfucking gongshow boys!” 

Derek Hale, left winger number thirty-seven, is in his rookie season in the NHL. Already, he’s being compared to the greats, and he _is_ the leading goal-scorer in the league. And the lead for most hits. And the top player overall. It’s all rather easy when you’re probably the only werewolf in the league, not that anyone but his… _concerned_ pack would know that. 

He was picked up by the Washington Capitals after only his freshman year of college at Columbia, where he blew up the numbers in the NCAA, and now he’s set out on doing the same for the NHL. And, to add to everything else, he is the first openly gay player in the NHL. He’s been given the nickname _Rainbow,_ mostly because of his rather distinct rainbow-colored stick tape, which has itself evolved into one of these doofuses or other insisting on screaming _‘Taste the rainbow!’_ every time he scores a goal, and of course, that’s trickled up to the fans, and then to the goddamn announcers. The first time he heard the analysts say it on the ESPN postgame, Derek just about shat bricks. 

Now, as he and his boys waddle their way back to the locker room, they pass the usual line of fans. He’s tired, drenched in sweat, and wants nothing more to get this goddamn gear off, but still, the way the fans light up when they catch sight of _the_ Rainbow Hale is enough to rally a smile on his face. That exhausted, nearly delirious grin is wiped from his features when he’s punched in the face by the single most potent scent he’s ever smelled, lilac and sugar and a harsh chemical edge from years of regularly taking medication, a cocktail so utterly consuming it’s everything in him not to seek out the man who is responsible for it and bury his face in his neck like a pup scenting his mother. 

**+**

“Stiles, come out to the game tonight. It can’t be all protest and organizing all the time!” Lydia demanded. “Jordan got called into work and I have a spare ticket. We can even line up and see the Caps on their way back to the locker room after the game…” She tempted him, her voice lilting suggestively at the image of a pack of sweaty, broad twenty and thirty-somethings walking within a few feet of them. 

_Maybe she has a point,_ Stiles thought to himself, _this impeachment is kind of all consuming lately. I might need to decompress._ Being a freshman poli-sci major at Georgetown is the strangest combination of amazing and horrific. Living in the times they do, analyzing the endless array of nonsense pouring from the White House is a surefire way to drive oneself into emotional and intellectual exhaustion.

Tentatively, he agreed, and the game was truly a barn burner, ending 7-4 with hat tricks for Hale and Ovechkin, which is how one Stiles Stilinski now finds himself in line to see the boys of the Washington Capitals as they make their way along to their locker room. It’s a long line of men, most of them enormous, shaggy-haired, and fiercely bearded, smiling tiredly as they snap selfies and sign jerseys for fans young and old. 

Stiles finds himself distracted for a moment by some noise from behind, and when he turns around, it’s to the sight of one of the players looking at him with the most brilliant kaleidoscope eyes he’s ever seen. The guy has a fair bit of stubble, and a stupidly pretty face. His jersey is number thirty-seven, and the stick in his hand is covered in rainbow tape. Holy shit, that’s Derek Hale. 

“You guys want a selfie?” Hale offers in a surprisingly soft voice for a man as physically imposing as he is. 

“Uh…” Stiles stutters, still blindsided, and thankfully, Lydia steps in. 

“We’d love one!” She smiles widely and fishes out her phone. Hale leans in close, and Stiles can’t help but notice that, despite the fact that he’s covered in sweat from sixty minutes and three goals worth of hockey, he smells _amazing._

“Say _‘Go Caps!’”_ She instructs, which both of them do, and after she snaps the photo and finds it to her satisfaction, Hale bids them both goodbye and heads on to the next set of eager fans. 

Once he’s out of hearing range, Lydia turns to Stiles with a shit-eating grin. “He was _staring_ at _you,_ Stiles!” She declares, laughing hysterically. “Oh, just wait until Erica hears about this!”

“He’s got that thousand yard stare, dude’s probably just exhausted.” He counters. “Ultra-famous NHL players do _not_ chase Stilinski tail. I’d be lucky to bag an ECHL player.” 

“Stop self-deprecating, it’s not attractive,” She says. “Anyway, you’ve done a lot of growing since high school, your shoulders are quite broad, you know. I’d bet a pretty little twink like you is precisely the type someone like Hale would want to be his puck bunny.” 

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Pretty sure _you’re_ the puck bunny, Miss Season Ticket Holder.” 

“They were a gift from Jordan! You know, my boyfriend?” 

“Whatever, Lyds, we all know you wanna ride Oshie’s hardwood stick.” 

**+**

By the time he’s in the shower, Derek is finally coming back to himself from the hazy effects of that guy’s scent. Surrounded by the competing smells of three dozen guys’ preferred shampoos and body washes, he’s finally able to clear the scent from his nostrils, but he will _never_ forget it, nor the man it was attached to. 

He had to have been around Derek’s age, with those big brown doe eyes he’s _always_ been a sucker for, a jawline cut from marble, and a sturdy, well-built body hidden beneath his tight tee shirt and wool jacket. And those lips! He wanted nothing more than to pull the guy in for a kiss that very second, and the flush rising up his face, the dumbstruck tone in his voice, and the smoldering scent of arousal suggested he wouldn’t have been opposed to the idea. Still, bad idea. Maybe he should do some asking, see if anyone’s seen him or his friend around before. Better yet, check all the social media sites and try to find the selfie, see if he can’t track him down that way. 

By the time he’s finished up showering, Derek finds himself in the unfortunate predicament of being at half-mast, and with the lack of privacy in a hockey team’s locker room, there’s no way he’d be able to play it off. Instead, he drowns his mind in every cold shower image he can possibly think of until he’s softened up enough to even consider walking out naked in front of the rest of the team. Relieved, he changes back into the suit he wore into the stadium and heads for where his camaro is parked, all the while thinking of lilacs and sugar.

**+**

_Acquitted. They acquitted the bastard._ The whole thing was a fucking sham, and the final vote was almost completely partisan. 52-48, even the coward from Maine that crossed to vote for witnesses voted to acquit him. The trial was rigged from the second it hit the Senate floor. What a fucking _joke._

Two days after the game, Stiles fumes as he marches alongside Lydia and Jordan towards the Capitol Building to join the rapidly growing protests of furious crowds. “Fucking ridiculous.” He spits to his companions. 

“Preaching to the choir, Stiles.” Lydia intones, venom in her own voice. “Preaching to the motherfucking choir.” 

Jordan doesn’t say anything, but nods with fury in his eyes. He’s not as involved as either of them, but when you’re dating the Secretary General of the Model UN and her best friend is the golden child of the American Government department, politics becomes part of your life, and that means accompanying the two of them to a protest from time to time. He’s no friend of the present administration, either, so Jordan has his own stake in the game. 

They reach the edge of the crowd that’s formed, just in time for a round of _‘No Trump, No KKK, No Fascist USA!’_ to kick off. Signs in the crowd range from the witty to the succinct, and they all purvey the sense of rage that has gripped Washington. All three quickly join in on the chant, and find themselves blending into the crowd, their own righteous anger stirred up to an eleven by the sea of like-minded people surrounding them. 

**+**

It’s Derek’s night off. Normally, he’d be on the couch of his apartment overlooking Mount Vernon Square, binge-watching something on Netflix with a bottle of specially-brewed wolfsbane beer in hand. Instead, he’s gathered outside of the Capitol with a crowd of thousands, protesting this bullshit acquittal in the Senate. He doesn’t have a sign or anything, but he knows the most impressive thing he can do is be there. With a leather jacket on and a Nationals cap over his hair, Derek doesn’t expect to be recognized, but his presence makes the crowd that much larger, and impresses upon the cameras no doubt watching this just how livid Washington, and the United States as a whole, truly is. 

He hasn’t been there for too long, maybe a half hour, and in that half hour, he’s seen the protest spread its way down the National Mall until it reaches nearly to the Washington Monument. “Finally got the crowds to turn out for you, asshole.” He mutters to himself. His phone is pinging with notifications from his news apps and Twitter, all showing crowds of equal or larger sizes blooming in major cities across the United States. 

Derek’s closed his senses off to the best of his ability, since he risks being overwhelmed by the scents and sounds of what must be more than 20,000 people by now, but they’re still far sharper than any human’s, which is why he’s the first among those around him to realize something is terribly wrong. 

_“Red hats!”_ Someone bellows in the distant edges of the crowd, and only a second later, three distinct popping sounds go off, followed by a dozen more. Then, the screaming begins. The crowd moves like an amoeba, undulating all at once in an effort to escape the onslaught of counter-protestors, and then more gunshots ring out, and the form breaks apart into a free-for-all. 

He breaks away from the crowd, rushing back towards the direction of his apartment, knowing his strength alone will allow him to overcome the tide of humanity pushing to the south. That is, until he hears a voice he knows he’d never forget. The guy from the other night, the one with the scent like heaven. 

“Lydia!” He cries frantically. “Jordan! Where are you?!” 

His eyes are flitting around the crowd, looking for the people he came for. As it is, Derek is twenty feet away and can barely hear the kid, there’s no chance his friends can over the screams of the crowd, the sudden whooping of sirens, and the still-frequent punctuated blasts of gunfire. 

Suddenly, a man wearing one of those fucking red hats steps up to the guy. The man is dressed in camo, as broad as a barn and built like a brick shithouse. He takes one look at the shirt the slighter kid is wearing, proudly blazoned with _‘Big Structural Change’_ across it in pale teal letters, and sneers down at him. 

“Looks like the snowflake got separated from his blizzard.” The asshole chuckles, grabbing a fistful of his shirt and yanking him close. 

What happens next is pure instinct, with Derek retaining just enough sense not to fully wolf out. Even if he isn’t on the ice, it’s too easy to fall into the motions of going for a body check at the guy, and unlike every hockey game he’s ever played, Derek doesn’t bother restraining the raw power of the wolf as he goes for him. 

In what feels like slow motion, he hits him going full tilt, easily putting as much force as a car at a good twenty miles per hour right into the douchebag’s shoulder, and he registers the series of sharp cracks and the lush sound of muscle tearing beneath skin as Red Hat’s shoulder blade, clavicle, and humerus all shatter on the force of his impact. All the while, Derek is pulling the kid into his arms with laser precision, keeping him steady and diverting away any excess force that would bring him into harm. 

Red Hat goes flying into the crowd, bowling over three others as they rush by, but Derek ignores them all, carefully inspecting the one still in his arms. “Are you hurt?” He frantically demands.

“N-No.” The guy manages to stutter out. “Thank you.” 

“We need to go.”

“My- my friends, they’re out there.” 

Derek nods. “I know, but we’re not gonna find them like this. We need to get the fuck away from here, and then we can try and regroup once we’re out of this fucking riot.” 

As if to punctuate his point, a bus that’s parked against the curb not far away bursts into flames, and a group surrounding it cheers, and gunfire is _still_ going off. Where the fuck are the DC Metro Police?! The younger man nods, before recognition flashes in his eyes.

“Holy shit, you’re-!” 

“Yes, Derek Hale, we met the other night after the game. What’s your name?” He asks. 

“Stiles.”

“Nice to meet you, Stiles. Now, let’s _go.”_

“Okay, we’ll go.” 

**+**

They manage to make their way out of the worst of the crowd, but the streets are still crowded, and people on both sides seem to have turned completely feral, overturning and setting fire to cars, looting buildings, and brawling with each other in the street. What’s worst of all is that they pass what’s probably a dead body in the street. In a matter of minutes, all of DC has turned to anarchy, it seems. 

Stiles still can’t believe that the insane rescue that saved him from getting his ass beaten by some jumped up wanna-be paramilitant was pulled off by Derek fucking Hale. He had barely seen him coming, only felt a rush of air and the sensation of being dragged close as the guy menacing over him vanished, and he found himself tightly gripped to Hale’s chest, which, _wow,_ that thing was solid.

As they cross into an undisturbed sidestreet, his phone begins blaring with the opening shrieks of Led Zeppelin's _Immigrant Song,_ which sends relief flaring through his system as he picks it up. “Lydia, thank fuck. Are you and Jordan okay?” 

_‘God, Stiles, we were so worried. We’re fine, after we got split up we headed for Kira’s, and bunkered down there. What about you, where are you?’_

“You’re not gonna believe me, but Derek Hale saved me from getting assaulted, and we’re headed to his apartment in Mount Vernon Square.” He says. 

_‘I’m sorry, did you say_ “Derek Hale”, _as in star rookie on the Washington Capitals whom we met the other night Derek Hale?’_

Next to him said star rookie bites his lip in an effort to suppress a smile that fails miserably, and Stiles gives him some considerable side-eye for it. “Yes, Lydia, _that_ Derek Hale. Do you guys know how bad the riots are?” 

_‘Bad. We’re watching CNN, they’re trying to storm the Capitol. You guys need to get inside and stay there. Somebody is saying the government is deploying the National Guard. It’s not just here, either. Half of Times Square is on fire, and somebody drove a truck into a crowd in Dallas.’_

Derek winces. “Fuck.” He mutters, before pointing to an apartment complex just up the street and mouthing _‘Mine’._

“You can say that again,” Stiles directs to him, before addressing his friend once more. “Listen, Lyds, stay where you are. We’re almost to Derek’s. Call me if you have to go out or if anything happens, and I’ll do the same for you. Otherwise, we’ll call each other in the morning?” 

_‘You got. Be safe, both of you.’_

“We will, sweetheart. I’ll talk to you later.” 

_‘Bye.’_ Her voice is silvery as the line goes dead. 

“I’m glad your friends are okay.” Derek says.

Before Stiles can respond, a text from Lydia comes across his screen. 

**LM: Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, either. ;)**

“Fuck, Lydia…” He rolls his eyes bemusedly. “Thanks. And, again, thank you _so much_ for rescuing me, and now putting me up for the night.” 

The other man grins as he punches in the door code to enter the building. “It’s no trouble. I wasn’t going to leave you there to try and survive that nightmare.” 

“Still, you could’ve saved me and sent me on my way.” 

“Nah,” He replies, suddenly daring. “You’re way too cute to leave alone, even if it weren’t the Second Civil War.” 

Stiles makes a noise that suggests he may have swallowed his tongue, and his cheeks burn, but his scent is pure receptivity and joy. It’s not a verbal yes, but it’s a definite sign of interest. The elevator ride up to his apartment is silent, and when they step in, the human’s jaw drops to the floor. “Holy… _shit.”_ He mutters. 

The space is wide and modern, the furniture low and comfortable looking, and the south-facing windows, floor to ceiling, offer a stunning view of the Washington Monument and the rest of Washington, which is marred by a growing number of columns of smoke rising from around Capitol Hill. 

“The last time Washington burned, the British did it. Now, we’re doing it ourselves.” Derek says. “It’s awful.” 

He turns around, nodding. “Can we turn on the news? I wanna see how bad this is.” 

“Of course,” He replies, leaning over to turn on the impressive television mounted across from the modern sectional sunken lower than the rest of the open floor plan space. “MSNBC or CNN?” 

“Your pick.” 

Derek settles on CNN, which has a massive roundtable in the midst of a heated argument, while the chyron underneath reads _‘IMPEACHMENT ACQUITTAL SPARKS RIOTS ACROSS COUNTRY’._ It takes a few moments for the table to settle, and the lead anchor takes over to deliver new reporting. 

_‘Breaking news, we have confirmation that the President has declared a state of emergency for Washington, DC, and that the National Guard is being deployed to control the riots there. Meanwhile, protestors on both sides continue to violently clash with riot police and each other in several major cities. We have unconfirmed reports of a bombing at City Hall in Los Angeles, but it is difficult to sort through what is rumor and what is fact as the developments roll.’_

“Christ!” Stiles exclaims. “The whole fucking country has gone mad.” 

Derek’s phone pings with the team group chat going off, and he looks down.

**AO: Just got the word from coach praccy’s cancelled till the crazy ends**

**NB: Bruh rioters are goin nuts outside my house. Thinking im gonna skip town when i can**

**DH: Do what you gotta, Nicke. Stay safe, boys.**

He plugs his phone in on the table, and walks over to the windows, leaning against the reinforced glass and watching as the crowds continue to stream across the city. There must be _thousands_ out rioting. A flash of light catches from the corner of his eye, and Derek flinches as he watches a bus explode in the middle of New York Avenue.

“Derek?” Stiles calls. “We’re safe here, right?” 

He turns around, putting a reassuring grin on his face. “Of course. We’re ten floors up, it’s not like anyone’s going to get up this high. Even if they did, the door’s solid metal underneath the wood panelling.” Nevermind the fact that he’s a werewolf, and there’s not much some looter could do to him before he had his claws in his intestines, but Stiles doesn’t need to know that. 

_Maybe he does,_ a voice in his head whispers. _He smells like a mate, like finally coming home._

He tells that voice to shut the fuck up. 

**+**

Stiles spends the night on the couch, with a spare blanket tucked over himself and his face buried in a pillow that smells like leather, apples, and woodsmoke, a uniquely _Derek_ perfume that is quickly growing on him. There wasn’t any more flirting after his one-liner in the lobby, but Derek had definitely hovered closer than necessary as they sat on the couch until what had to two in the morning, just watching a live feed of riots ranging from Seattle to Miami, and everywhere between. 

He wakes up with a crick in his neck and drool dried to his face, which, _Cute, very cute, Stilinski. You’re in a smoking hot NHL player’s apartment, alone with him, and you look like you were out going apeshit with those rioters last night._ Derek’s guest bedroom was long ago converted to an office and home gym, so he was out a bed, but there _is_ a guest bath Stiles was told was at his disposal, complete with spare toothbrushes and toothpaste. 

When he comes out of the large, very expensive-looking shower, Stiles finds himself face to face with a pile of very soft looking clothes, a Caps tee shirt with the eagle blazoned across the chest, and a pair of grey lounge pants. On top of it rests a handwritten note. _‘These are too small, hopefully they’ll fit. -D’,_ it reads. 

On one hand, he’s touched by the gesture. On the other, he realizes that Derek was in there. While he was naked. With only a sheet of foggy glass providing any decency. This conclusion sends a portion of his blood rushing to his cheeks in a blush he’s fairly certain has stained his chest pink, while the lion’s share goes southward. Christ, he’s got it bad if just being naked in the same room as the guy has him half hard! Putting on his boxer briefs is both a blessing and a curse, as they keep his little problem pressed snugly to his right thigh, while also being _quite_ uncomfortable. 

The clothes are cool and crisp, with the woodsy scent that comes from months of sitting in a dressed drawer, but they’re soft, and perhaps most importantly of all, they’re _Derek’s._ Stiles pads out of the bathroom, through the office, and back out into the open space that makes up most of the apartment, where he finds Derek bent over a pan at the kitchen stove. 

**+**

While it _is_ just hospitable to make your guests breakfast, the majority of Derek’s thought process in making up the veritable spread he’s preparing comes from that profoundly animal part of his brain that chants obsessively _protect, provide, please, mate,_ over and over again. He stalwartly ignores that last part, unwilling to concede what his hindbrain has already decided, but Derek does allow the very base instinct of the wolf to take over in some small way by making breakfast for Stiles. 

Luckily, it seems that Stiles enjoys long showers, because he was able to get the bacon and sausages fried up and plated, the hashbrowns are nearly done, the corned beef hash is coming along quite nicely, and he can quickly serve up eggs almost any way the human would desire. 

Stiles comes over, leaning against the island he’s working at and grinning at the food. “Holy shit, that’s a lot of protein, Hale.” 

“Hockey player, remember?” He wryly grins. “Now, do you want me to make you something, too, or are you not hungry?” 

The human’s eyes go big as dinner plates. “I- you- that’s all _yours?!”_ He asks incredulously. 

“No, Stiles!” Derek laughs, even though between said hockey player status and his werewolf metabolism, he probably could wolf that all down and have room for seconds.

“Ass.” He chastises, reaching over and smacking him lightly on the shoulder. 

He makes a wounded face at Stiles. “Abusing me? Is that any way to treat the guy who’s feeding you?” 

“Please,” He rolls his eyes bemusedly. “After what you did to that gentleman last night, if a smack on the shoulder takes you out, I’m the President.” 

“You’d do a better job.” Derek darkly mutters. 

“Tell me about it. Anyway, is that corned beef hash?” 

He nods. “I know it’s something a lot of people don’t care for, but I grew up on it, home made and all.” 

“I only ask because the stuff they serve on campus, I’m ninety percent sure comes from an industrial-sized can and it does not look nearly as appetizing. Still hopelessly addicted to it. I bet that stuff’s gonna ruin anything Leo Hall can give me.” Stiles remarks. “Hey, speaking of, is it safe to leave yet? Not that I’m in a great big rush or anything.” He quickly adds, blushing just a touch. 

“Curfew’s still in effect.” He replies. “It’s quieted down a lot out there, but the diehards are still acting up. Pretty sure there’s some Nazis and communists fighting each other near Union Station.” 

_“Fuck.”_ He says, drawing out the word. “And I thought Charlottesville was bad.” 

Derek cocks his head to the side. “You were at Charlottesville?” 

“Oh, Hell no. I was still in high school when that shit went down.” Stiles replies. “I just remember how bad it was. I’m from California, I wasn’t anywhere near that shitshow.” 

“I was in New York. _Waaaay_ upstate. Red Country, honestly.” He answers. “I was a senior.” 

“Sophomore.” 

The conversation peters out after that, until, between bites, Stiles poses a question. “So, how do you get away with the rainbow stick tape? Don’t the rules say black for the home team and white for the visitors?” 

“Well, I was openly gay when I got drafted before my sophomore year of college, so the boys decided to make the home opener pride night as a welcome for me. Then that ‘taste the rainbow’ shit started after my first hattie that same game, and Sasha and Nicky went to bat for me before the coaches, who went up and asked the League to consider a single exception for the very first of his kind. Now, I’m pretty sure if I ever give up the rainbow, they’ll fine my ass.” Derek explains. 

“Huh.” He comments. “I mean, they do call you Gretzky reborn on the hockey subreddit. Makes sense that they’d let you rock that after… twelve career hat tricks in your rookie season?”

“Eleven.” He corrects. “I’ve only got Ninety Nine beat by one.” 

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Dude, you’re on track to have the single greatest season in NHL history. You’re a fucking _God._ The Hale Standard, they call it.” 

_Not a God, just a werewolf._ Derek wryly thinks to himself. If he’s honest, it’s entirely the reason he’s as successful as he is. His constant sensory awareness, the strength with which he’s able to put even into a simple wrister, and certainly his ability to send the biscuit through a crowd of goons and past the goalie so fast that the fucking thing is a blur on the slo-mo, all of that comes from the fact that he’s known to sprout fur and fang from time to time. If the boys have noticed that his weakest games always come the day after a full moon, or that he’s a bit more aggressive on the moon itself, they haven’t said anything. 

Truth be told, he expects one of them to figure out, or at least suspect he’s a little more than human sooner or later. It’ll probably be Osh, that kid is too smart for his own good. Maybe they’ll quietly trade him away, maybe they’ll accept him, maybe they’ll out him, and then the whole secret will be out in the open. 

Derek’s heard it all from his mother. _It’s too dangerous,_ she says. _You’re not even trying to keep it subtle._ He shrugs it off, but there is a degree of instinctual fear. Thing is, he’s so fucking tired of fear, of shame, of secrecy. Like humans won’t figure it out sooner or later, anyway, why not give them good examples of what werewolves can be, and what better than an LGBT icon and sporting legend, who one day can come out of the closet one more time and embrace his werewolf status before the public? 

Making a non-committal noise, he shrugs, and steers the discussion into less dodgy territory.

**+**

The curfew is lifted around two thirty that afternoon, as the National Guard rolls out of DC and the total number of people dead in the city is announced. One hundred and four. Six times that wounded, and more than three thousand arrested. Nationally, it’s estimated at least a thousand people were killed in what’s already been declared the deadliest day of civil unrest in American history. The damage cost is believed to be in the range of hundreds of billions, also making it the most expensive civil unrest event in history.

Smoke still rises from the shells of burnt out cars, buses, and buildings as Stiles walks his way to the nearest Metro station, but even that can’t keep him from feeling like he’s floating on air. He’d insisted he would be fine walking back to Georgetown alone, unwilling to take up any more of Derek’s time. That said, the hockey player had smiled softly at him, and asked if he would like to have a spot saved for him and a friend in the family section at the next Caps home game, which, _duh._

They had traded numbers, and flirty smiles, and now Stiles is still stuck with a stupid grin on his face as he keeps thinking about when he can see Derek again.

**+**

Four days later, the game is a blowout. Derek received a text from Stiles confirming that he and the girl he’d been with before, Lydia, would be at the game, and the knowledge that he was there drove the wolf to new heights. Every pass, every shot, all of it, had to be _perfect._ He had to prove his fitness and his worthiness as a mate. The boys comment on it on and off the ice. 

“Fuckin’ A, kid, you keep wheelin’ like that you’re in for another hattie!” 

“Hale’s a beaut, tonight, boys!”

By the time they’re halfway through the second, Derek’s wrapped up two goals and two assists against the Islanders, while the Holtbeast is maintaining a shutout. That’s when he hears an asshole on the opposite side muttering to himself. _“What the fuck do they feed that faggot to make him play like that?”_

Now, it’s hardly the first time some prick has decided to talk shit and throw around mean names, but with Stiles present, and Derek already on a heightened drive to perform, he’s not taking anything. He lets a low snarl out from the back of his throat and waits until the biscuit is on the player’s stick. The second that center has possession, it’s just like that night at the National Mall. 

Moving not nearly fast enough to do any real damage, but still far too fast to dodge, Derek bodies the douchebag, sending him flying across the ice with his stick and gloves thrown from him. From somewhere behind, Tommy screams _“Yard sale!”_

In an instant, one of the goons the Islanders has on the ice is charging at him, gloves and stick tossed aside, with fury on his face. Now, Derek has thrown a number of fights just to keep from looking suspicious. After all, he isn’t built like a barn or anything, so him easily taking on guys nearly twice as wide and with a good four inches on him would raise quite a few eyebrows. 

This time, however, is completely different. Stiles is watching, and he _refuses_ to allow himself to be challenged. Ditching the gear, Derek winds up a fist, and puts it in the human’s jaw before he’s even got his hands raised. The player goes down like a puppet with his strings cut, and though he isn’t unconscious, he’s certainly quite dazed. 

_‘Penalty, Washington Capitals, number thirty-seven, Derek Hale, five minute major for fighting.’_ The announcer recites as he skates to the sin bin with a deep sense of satisfaction that he’s proved his worth as a mate, and the proud cheers of his boys make it all the sweeter.

When his time in the bad boy box is over, Derek notches another goal. He ends the night with a Gordie Howe hat trick, and a regular one for good measure. God, he feels unstoppable.

**DH: Wait around until after the presser for me?**

**SS: Hells yeah. Where we goin?**

**DH: Just back to mine, if you want?**

**SS: Sounds perfect**

“Hale!” One of the boys barks, laughing. “Who you texting with a grin like that on your mug?”

“Probably that sniper from the last game!”

He waves a hand at the doofuses as the rest of the boys start making _“Ooooh!”_ sounds. “Who I bring back to my apartment after I block a puck meant for your jaw is none of your concern, Backy.” Derek chirps. 

“Hey! I could’ve handled that!” He shoots back.

“‘Kay, next time I’ll let you have your chiclets knocked all over the ice, that’s your prerogative.” 

Sasha cuts in. “Then he finally be pretty, like me!”

The banter devolves into more good-natured chirping, and they’re all riding the high of a damn good win through the presser. As soon as it’s over, he texts Stiles, and instructs him on where to meet in the parking garage. Sure enough, he finds the human leaning against the sleek black camaro Derek proudly calls his baby. 

“Hell of a game, Hale.” Stiles slyly remarks. 

Derek grins, still riding the adrenaline high, before leaning in close to the slighter man. “Shut up and let me kiss you.” He instructs, before angling their heads together. Stiles meets him halfway with gusto, and it’s every bit as sweet as he imagined it would be. He tastes like Cherry Coke and curly fries and anticipation, and Derek is half mad with desire as he boxes him in against the driver side door of the car and ravishes his mouth. 

After a few fantastic moments of kissing, Stiles breaks them apart and looks at him with blown pupils and a flush across his face. “If you don’t get me back to your apartment _right fucking now,_ we’re going to cop a public indecency charge.”

“Wouldn’t be the first NHL player caught getting head in the parking garage.” He replies breathily. 

“Still not on my bucket list.” 

The drive back is agony. Derek is tortured by the scent of Stiles’ arousal, which spikes his own even higher, and it’s hard enough to drive through the traffic around Capital One Arena without a rager in his dress pants. Seeing as a packed stadium is currently in the midst of emptying itself, what should be a five minute drive takes fifteen, and by the end of it, Derek is dying for some form of relief. He hasn’t been this hard since he was a teenager, for Christ’s sake!

They finally get the camaro parked, and the instant they’re in the elevator, Stiles is attached to him once again, wrapping his leg around his waist and sucking at the tender spot right beneath his ear. “God, _Derek,”_ He whispers directly into his ear, “The things I want you to do to me.” 

“Got plenty of ideas.” Derek pants, leaning down to nip at the juncture of his neck and shoulder as he grinds his erection against Stiles’. The elevator beeps, indicating they’ve made it to his top floor apartment, and Derek doesn’t bother separating them. He just hikes Stiles up with one hand and digs out his key from his pocket with the other. 

Stiles, for his part, has no objection. “Holy shit, that is so fucking hot.” He says, “And you, in a suit? Unfair. I’m giving you a penalty. All night in bed for looking that sexy in a blazer.” 

He can’t help but laugh at that, claiming another kiss as he carries him across the apartment and into his bedroom. Derek throws him onto the dark blue bedspread like he weighs nothing, and works on divesting his clothes as quickly as possible, which is made annoyingly slow by the presence of so many goddamned buttons. 

Meanwhile, Stiles is stripping out of the tight jeans and black sweater he’s worn, having thrown his jacket on the floor somewhere in the living room while he was still clinging to Derek. Finally, they’re both naked, each eyeing one another greedily. Derek can’t help but tug on his aching cock as he looks at Stiles, who does the same. 

“You’re sure about this?” He asks. 

“So sure. The consent is extremely enthusiastic.” The human replies, which has Derek chuckling. 

“Good,” He replies. “I’m every bit as enthusiastic as you are.”

Stiles sits up on the bed with his best _‘come hither’_ eyes. “Prove it, Hale.” 

The thrill of the challenge runs down Derek’s spine. He lets every one of his muscles tense, and springs like the wolf he is, instantly caging Stiles back against the pillows, invading his mouth mercilessly as he reaches down to wrap a hand around the man’s weeping erection. The circumcised length doesn’t move as easily as his own uncut one, but it’s smooth and feels beautifully correct in his hand. 

Derek’s hindbrain sings in triumph as Stiles reciprocates, each man muffling their groans of pleasure into the messy kiss. They keep at it for some period of time, and Stiles lets his hand wander across the vast expanse of flesh hovering over his own. Years of playing hockey have honed Derek’s body into a mass of solidness, and when he reaches down to grope at his firm ass, he ends the kiss to chuckle. 

“Everything they ever said about hockey butts was true, and then some.” He laughs.

“How about I show you what a hockey player’s mouth can do?” Derek offers.

Stiles vigorously nods. “Please, please, oh, God, _yes!”_ He gasps as the other man’s lips wrap themselves around the leaking head of his cock and he swirls his tongue.

Derek tastes the natural salt of Stiles’ flesh, and the flavor of precum is a burst of bitterness across his tongue, one which spurs him on further. It takes a bit of effort to relax his throat, but he manages to take the human down to the root, and he savors the gasps and curses that stream from his lips. Stiles tangles his fingers through his raven locks, pleasantly tugging at the root and completely trashing any effort he made earlier to recover from a serious case of helmet hair. 

“God fuck!” Stiles barks. “Oh, Der, fuck, I- I’m gonna-” 

Derek redoubles, burying his nose in the trimmed bed of chocolate brown curls at the base of his cock, and he swallows around the length in his throat. Stiles gasps one more time, and then he is spilling down the tight cavity of the hockey player’s throat. As soon as the flavor of his release reaches his tongue, the razor-thin control by which Derek has been holding on fails, and he feels his eyes start to glow gold. 

Immediately, he snaps them shut, and pulls off as he feels his fangs begin to extend. He tries to turn around, but a hand is at his shoulder. “Hey,” Stiles whispers. “Hey, look at me, it’s okay.” 

Hesitantly, Derek turns and meets his eyes, well aware that his own are still burning feral yellow. 

“I should have known.” He says, smiling with nothing but fondness and desire in his eyes. “There’s no way you’re _that_ good and only human. My guess was magic, honestly.” 

Shock floods his system. “You… you know?” 

“My best friend back in California is a werewolf. Lydia’s a banshee, Jordan is a hellhound.” Stiles explains. “Come here.” He leans in. 

The human pulls him in close, and kisses him soft and sweet, carefully swiping his tongue along the edges of his still-extended fangs. He leans down, and takes Derek’s flagging erection in hand. With only a few tugs, he’s as hard as he was before. The kiss stays tender, and Derek leans heavily against Stiles, moaning into his mouth as he feels his own climax running at him like a D-Man aiming to send him airborne. 

They break apart at the last second, and Derek moans brokenly as he shoots his load across both of their chests. All the while, Stiles is there, whispering sweet, filthy nothings into his ear, telling him how beautiful he is, how fucking sexy it is to see him come apart like that. He keeps jerking him off long after his orgasm has passed, and finally Derek has to gently swat away his hand as the overstimulation becomes too much. 

Once they’re cleaned up, Derek settles into his pillows, with Stiles curling into his side. As they each finish getting comfortable, a childish giggle escapes the human’s lips. “What is it?” Derek asks, raising an eyebrow as he looks down at him. 

“Heh. Wolf, snipe, celly.” 

He swats Stiles with a pillow for that one.

**+**

The next morning, Stiles raises a brow. "So, you were out protesting the impeachment shit... and you're quite a public figure." 

"Yes, I am..." Derek trails. "Where are you going with this?"

He points to the tee shirt he's wearing, the same one he wore the night he rescued him from that assmunch in the red hat. The _'Big Structural Change'_ tee shirt. "How do you feel about making an endorsement?"

**Author's Note:**

> So, if you do go out protesting, please don't start rioting. Other than that, please give me your thoughts! Also, apologies, I don't speak puck bunny, so I wasn't gonna even try. 
> 
> EDIT: Oops, posted the wrong draft first time. Ending extended.


End file.
